The Last Message
by Tsubasa504
Summary: It was like coming out of a dream, lifting his head and looking up from where he laid on the sofa. Where was John? A sad fic. COMPLETE


**The Last Message**

It was like coming out of a dream, lifting his head and looking up from where he laid on the sofa. _John_. The word stuck in his head and he found himself unable to say it. His head ached slightly and he found himself extremely tired. Looking about the apartment he searched for John, but it seemed eerily quiet.

"Has he gone out?" He wondered to himself. Forcing his heavy limbs to move, Sherlock stood up. Cocking his head to the side in confusion. Something wasn't right. What was going on? Looking down at his laptop which had somehow ended up on his floor, he wondered where Johns laptop was. It was the one Sherlock liked using. Frowning Sherlock looked about himself. There were clothes on the floor as well as papers scattered everywhere, a fine layer of dust covered most things. Most of the furniture's looked untouched, as if there had been no guests for a long time.

A sickening thud in his stomach made Sherlock want to curl forward, but he straightened and took a deep breath wondering why his hands shock.

"John?" The words were soft almost as if he was afraid someone would answer. Stumbling forward he went to Johns bedroom, it was one of the places Sherlock never intruded upon. The one place that was truly Johns. The door was closed but not locked and it opened with a creak beneath his hands. The dark room smelled of dust and enclosed space. The bed was made, but not recently, there was more dust on it than the furniture's downstairs. On his table laid papers and a few pictures, cut outs from news papers of him and John. A few others were taped to the walls. There were no cloths about, but that was how John was. A clean freak in a sense. Probably something he gained during his military career. They were most likely tucked away and folded in his wardrobe.

Letting go of the door, Sherlock walked towards the desk. Carefully shuffling through the papers, they were months old. _How weird._

The headache had now moved from the back of his head to the front, pounding slightly behind his eyes. "I must be tired." he said to himself and made his way to the kitchen, closing Johns door carefully.

The kitchen was also a mess, but that was just how it always was. John and him had had tea at the table yesterday and the memory made Sherlock smile slightly. Grabbing his old cup from the table, he reached for Johns also. _Might as well clean it, he will want more tea when he comes home._ Stopping, he licked his lips, uncertain as to how to proceed.

Sherlock remembered yesterday. Remember smiling and asking if John wanted tea. Having poured the cup and sat it in front of him. He had talked about his case and John had nodded and smiled. _No_. John hadn't nodded and smiled. Frowning he stared at the cup. The full cup of cold tea. No John hadn't been here. _Where was John?Why hadn't John been there?_ Starring about in confusion, Sherlock let go of his own cup. Something wasn't right, what was it that he couldn't remember. He was the consulting detective, he could deduce anything. But yet his quiet apartment, his home, Johns home. He couldn't solve the sickening sensation he felt as he looked about. A note on the refrigerator caught his eyes and he moved immediately towards it. John must have written it, maybe he wanted Sherlock to buy food. He knew how much Sherlock hated doing boring stuff like that.

"Make sure you eat Sherlock, you know how I worry. MH." He read out loud, his voice trailing off lamely at the end. _Mycroft._ Why would he leave a note? Why would he tell him to eat, John always fussed about him eating. His brother shouldn't need to worry. John would tell him to eat.

His shoulders slumped slightly and a burning sensation was behind his eyes. The confusion had grown to a sickening kind of apprehension. The shaking in his hands were back and all Sherlock could do was stare at them blankly. _Why wouldn't John tell me to eat?_ It was a cruel voice that answered, _because he isn't here._

Lifting his head, Sherlock searched for his phone, he needed to text John. Needed to tell him to come back. Maybe Sherlock was getting sick, he didn't feel good. He needed John. He would probably be at work. Yet the feeling of apprehension would not leave him. Closing his hand around his phone, he quickly opened it. The first text was from Sherlock to John asking him to bring home more milk. John hadn't answered. But that was okay, Sherlock remembered this, it was just a few days ago. And when he had come home, John had complained at him from his arm chair and there had been milk in the fridge. Nodding to himself he scrolled up, looking at the messages they had sent each other. But they were all from Sherlock. John hadn't replied.

_Come to the case, John._

_You'll like this one. _

_These imbeciles they don't know what they are doing. _

_Bring milk. _

_Out of blood, take some with you when you leave the clinic. _

_I miss you._

_Dull, John, dull. They call this a case. I could solve it while sleeping._

_Where are you? _

_John…_

_Bring home food, Chinese will do._

On and on the messages went. All to John. _Why would I tell John I missed him?_ He couldn't believe he had written that. But he missed him, the thudding ache in his heart told him he missed him. _But why?_ His own question seemed to have left him weak. With uncertain steps, Sherlock leaned against the wall and slide down. Sprawling out and staring at this phone. Why was this important? He was missing something, something he should be deducing.

John hadn't brought milk home. Why hadn't John brought milk home? Because he hadn't been here. John hadn't sat in the armchair and complained. A hot tear slide down his cheek and more quickly followed. His heart was beating faster and the shaking was bad enough to cause him to drop the phone. The bright screen blinking up at him. Johns last message bright and clear for him to see, it was all staring up at him. Daring him to figure it out. Daring him to read it out loud, to tell himself the truth. The truth of all those months ago.

"Where is John?" He sobbed pulling his knees up, lying his head upon them, but his eyes remained fixed on his screen.

"You know the answer to that, Sherlock. You've always known the answer." Startled he looked up with tear filled eyes upon Mycroft. His eyes filled with pity and pain, stared down at Sherlock. It was all Sherlock needed. How had he not seen, why had he not seen?

The last of Johns messages was still blinking up at him and Sherlock read it. "Good bye Sherlock." His voice was hollow and the tears wouldn't stop falling. Why would he not have known, how could he not have known?

And that cruel voice was back, but it wasn't cruel Sherlock realized. It was John, saying _because you didn't want to know the truth, Sherlock._

The screen went black, but the words were seared into his memory and Sherlock's tired and sad mind answered him.

_Good bye John._

**_So a fic where John is dead and Sherlock realizes his friend is no longer with him._**

**_-Tsubasa-_**


End file.
